Precious
by Jonathan Watts
Summary: With Frankie unconscious and possibly scarred beyond repair, a hare and a matriarch are left to wonder where it all went wrong. [ON INDEFINITE HOLD, PLEASE READ FOR DETAILS]
1. In The Waiting Room

**A/N - This is a sort-of continuation of the events in my first story, "A Moment of Understanding". Although I'm intending this to work as a stand-alone(This one is a Frankie-based story while the other is more of a Goo story), I recommend that you read that one first if you want to know the circumstances leading to this, why Frankie is unconscious and why Madame Foster is no longer kooky and playful.**

**And yes, I know AMoU didn't get finished before the end of May like I was repeatedly saying. But I _am_ nearing the end. One or maybe two chapters left, finish this story within a few weeks, and then I take a break before moving on. And as much as I love Foster's, I can't wait for that moment, because I have quite a few other fanfics put on prolonged hold thanks to the obsession I've had with this wacky show for the last six months.**

**Until then, I hope you enjoy this...**

- - -

Eyes.

Hungry eyes. Exhausted eyes. Well-worn, brittle, muted. Grizzled. One pair to watch with caution as he navigate the clockwork of people, another cast hopelessly over the unconscious bodies of her offspring, and others attentive to the ceiling-bound Panasonic TV that provided the local news. Fear was the iron hand in which they were uniformly gripped. No; _pair_ of hands. One to ensnare their wounded throats, the other to feed them with images of wrath and suffering, over and over and over until the intestines revolted and the bulge started to show. And right now, they were all tinted in veiny red and putrid purple.

They adorned the whole of McCracken General Hospital's emergency room, not like bulbs on a Christmas tree, but seasoned vultures circling the latest corpse to streak limp in the pale moonlight.

In this case: a very old lady with walking cane hoisted on one hand, the other wiping the sweat that emanated from her crusty skin... and the tears that rolled down her eyes.

They knew who she was. Shame if you didn't; this hospital wasn't too far away from a little mansion in the heart of Wilson Way, which served as a shelter for abandoned imaginary friends. They'd seen the pictures, read the articles--and heard the unsavory gossip. The expression that Madame Martha Foster currently bore was closer to that last one than the other two.

She tried to nonchalantly shrug it off, shifting herself to find a comfortable spot in her seat, while ignoring the all the others in favor of the exterior-view glass window. The problem was that her shift was very uneasy, the seat was a clinically cold silver, and the glasspane was thickly mucked in grime--and what _was_ visible was nothing but more of the same destruction seen as she arrived in this place.

Martha sagged miserably as vague yet fresh memories overtook her. The ride here had been an ordeal all it's own. Her Pontiac Firebird, which she hadn't used in a while, was beginning to show it's age. The circumstances to it's return were the absolute worst possible: the roads were wrecked; littered with fallen leaves, branches and even entire trees, while the electricity cables were loosened and snaked across the wet sidewalks. It reached the point that there were entire squads of police present to monitor the traffic, turning a simple drive into an elaborate maze. Even _there, _ she couldn't escape the dirty glares.

At least here, for the moment anyway, she was on her own. With a withered sigh, she ditched the window's view and turned herself to face the TV--

What she saw was a reporter, just like any other; male, tall, mid-twentyish, clad in fine black, sitting in a desk with a faux city backdrop and some papers in his hands. But that wasn't what mattered. What mattered was at the upper-right of the screen; a caption image of that very Wilson Way mansion known as _Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends_. And right below it, read: "**Foster's Home: Falling Apart?**"

The old lady was thunderstruck.

_How did...?_

She suddenly shot up straight to speak, but all that left her lips were frail hisses when the reporter's voice boomed across the room--with the rest of the room silently attentive.

"_Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends, which has been operating for over thirty years and has become a well-known landmark of Wilson Way, may be reaching it's end. According to various sources, last afternoon saw a major public confrontation between all three of it's staff members; otherwise known as Madame Foster, Mr. Herriman and Frances 'Frankie' Foster."_

Nearly everybody was now standing, their gazes so fixed on the screen that they failed to notice a slight brush across the scruffs of their ankles; Martha hurried breathlessly through them, mouth widening in horror and sweat rapidly breeding in her aged features.

_"_I_nstead of explaining or reporting, we're going to show videotape footage sent to us by an anonymous witness, who says that he intended to film her daughter's first meeting with her newly-adopted imaginary friend, but instead caught the altercation on tape. We've censored all expletives, but be warned: what you are about to see is very shocking and very much real. Viewer discretion is advised._"

Martha was standing on the magazine table right below the TV, her wrinkled fingers reaching for the cables--when the reality of those words fully crashed to her. She teetered across the edge, trying to escape the sudden numbing sensation--

THUD.

The next thing she saw was an up-close, darkened gaze of the pasty-white floor foundation. And the next thing she heard was the fuzzy recording of an old, croaky voice that spoke with unfiltered rancor.

_Her_ voice.

She slowly and painfully rose back to her feet, craning her attention way above the rows of much-taller people and onto the news broadcast, or more specifically the taped footage's greenish tint. Her mouth hung agape and her eyes became like saucers. There was the mansion's spacious foyer indeed, and the one person present was none other than herself, bearing a vitriolic face that was exact opposite to the genuine dread she felt right now. Her... and a young redhead lady that crawled hopelessly against the harsh scolding.

Frances Foster.

Before she was able to fully recollect herself, the footage skipped forward and the circumstances changed: Frances was now blistering with fury and it became Martha and the rest's turn to cower in fear. The redhead spoke - nay, _screamed_ a very raw and hatefilled rant, prompting censor bleeps for her many expletives. After what was around a minute but felt like forever, the footage abruptly stopped, with a frightengly clear shot of the embittered girl's face. That image zoomed back into the upper-right area, showing that the reporter was a bit frazzled himself.

"_I repeat: what you saw was REAL. Shortly afterwards, the 22-year-old Ms. Foster ran in what was apparently fear, and the would-be adopters were forced to leave by Madame Foster and Mr. Herriman. According to sources, the mansion is currently indefinitely closed and thus won't attend to it's everyday operations. Right as I speak, some of our reporters are currently at the gates of Foster's, trying to gain access so they can question the residents for further clarification. We hope to have an update on this story for the 12 o'clock news._"

The bit about reporters trying to enter her mansion escaped Martha at the moment. All she noticed - all she _cared_ about - was the fact that she was literally stranded against the emergency room's corner, with everybody stooping their faces to get a clear look at the woman of the hour.

There were eyes. Angry eyes. Disbelieving eyes. Stunned, quivering, speechless.

Furious.

"Such repugnance!"

"Wow, some people and their nerves..."

"That little rabbit butt-buddy of yours doesn't seem so bad now, eh?"

"I can't believe I almost considering visiting that nuthouse of yours!"

"Foster's Home? Pffft, more like concentration camp!"

The crowd's reaction would surround Martha's senses for a brief but painful moment; until she felt a long-sleeved hand latch gently but firmly across her shoulders.

"Huh?" spoke a young nurse that had just come out from the emergency entrance. "What is this commotion, if I may ask?"

"I--" the old lady could muster no more than a weak stammer when another person arose from that entrance: a tall, broad, kindly but exhausted middle-aged man in doctor's garb. He shot a somewhat scolding glare towards the crowd, before turning to face Martha.

"Mrs. Foster," he said. "I recommend that you come to my office this instant."

- - -

"Madame?"

The stirred but still thickly baritoned accent of Mr. Herriman could barely penetrate the layers of shock that imprisioned the old lady, as she walked by onto a small, clinically-white office. She pulled up one of the chairs and slunked herself onto it.

"Stay here," would be Dr. Marshall's only words before hurrying out of the door and away from eyeshot.

Silence. Not quiet, but loud. The gentle hums of the ice-cold air conditioner translated themselves to an omnipresent whirr, the outside echoes of footsteps into thunderous bangs--and the hare's lowered tone into a mighty husk.

"Are you not fine, Mad--" Mr. Herriman stopped when, all of a sudden, Martha sprung herself into a seating position.

Noting that the check-up bed was empty, she would ignore that inquire and throw in her own: "Where's Frances?"

"They've admitted her, for an uncertain amount of time. A week, at least." The imaginary friend sighed. "The doctor said that she's in a far more grievous state than originally anticipated."

_Admitted_. Martha didn't know which current meaning of the word was worse: her granddaughter becoming so ill that she would require extensive medical care, or the fact that she... that _they_--

At last, she exposed her puffy, bloodshot eyes to the hare. "They know."

"Know?"

"All of Wilson Way. And quite possibly the rest of the world."

Herriman was confused. "What could you possibly--"

"The confrontation." Martha said, suddenly and blankly. "They just reported it on the local news... they actually showed _videotape footage_ of it. And I'm sure it's spreading across the internet like wildfire..."

For a brief moment, Martha couldn't help but be reminded of the Funny Bunny incident many months ago. The image of her beloved Mr. Herriman singing in a way that was the exact opposite of his cranky demeanor brought a smile to her face. Tainted and bitter--but a smile nonetheless.

"At least it can't get worse."

Though the small stature of her body indicated that she could lay stretched out across the chair without difficulty, Martha still chose to curl herself, feeling smaller and smaller each second. Conversely, Herriman's shadow grew larger as he allowed his large frame to stand up, and hop right next to his emotionally wounded creator.

"I'm afraid it can." Even though Martha's eyes were fixed firmly shut, she nonetheless felt a deep frown envelop on the hare's features. "The doctor told me that Frances suffered a heart attack."

- - -

**A/N - Ok... that wasn't very uplifting, I know. But I promise things will become less bleak and more hopeful from now on.**


	2. Remorse

Whisps of silver, patches of scaly auburn, with a yellow circle that was omnipresent but weakened greatly by a heavy pale hue; all of them conspiring to form a symphony of bleak might. These words matched with the outside window's curtain-covered view provided by Room B-12, located in the sixth level of McCracken General Hospital. They also described the very patient that currently occupied it: a young woman with bright but diluted crimson hair, clad in a grey patient's suit with sunshine-esque dots, covering skin whose former colorful self was now as wintry and as motionless as her current unconscious state.

The hospital bed in which she lay was so perfectly lined up with the window that they briefly but flawlessly blended with each other as a hare-like anthropomorphic imaginary being hopped quietly inside. Most pairs of normal eyes would've been fooled by this, but in Mr. Herriman's case, it didn't help that the last twenty-four felt like over six months and counting in his woozy state of mind. It took a firm blink of his eyes - actually _one_ eye, as the other was wounded and bandaged - for the illusion to clear and for him to behold the bittersweet sight of his creator's granddaughter.

_So beautiful_. Whether it was kept intact or one of the nurses changed it for no apparent reason, her face's expression was just as snarky as it was sad, her eyelines bristling and lips curled into somewhat of a scowl. The visitor couldn't help but chuckle a little, feeling his jaded mind plunged into different times. More innocent times; times when that adorably grumpy face was one of the many trademarks you could only see at Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends. Not like--

Even as Mr. Herriman reached his paws for the nearest empty chair, straightened it to the bed's side and settled himself onto it, his gaze with the lady did not break.

For a very long time, it wouldn't break.

_Miss Frances_.

Her name. The hare spoke it so softly that he barely realized it actually escaped it's lips, so soft that they were quickly dissintigrated by the air conditioner's thick chill--much less actually reach her earlobes. Noting this, Herriman inched himself even closer to the lady, to the point that the strands on unkempt fur on his face softly grazed her's... and for perhaps the very first time, spoke to her with sincerity and sympathy.

_"You hate me. That much is clear. I know that, many times, you've wished for me to have never been such an unrequitedly large part of your life... in fact, you've longed for a different life; one that is far more productive and pleasant than maid of some silly shelter for imaginary friends. I think I finally see the irony: a cause that set out to make the world a more optimistic place has turned one of it's chief proponents very bitter."_

_"If it makes you feel better--we're in disarray. ALL of us. No doubt, the house will soon start to fall apart as result of our prolonged absence. Many of the residents are confused and disillusioned. The media has even caught word of this, and there's a more-than-normal possibility that this could blow into a hugely publicized scandal. Martha is waiting just outside, still having a hard time recovering from all this. YOU... well, at least you're resting, for the time being."_

_"I don't hate you. YOU feel free to hate ME all you want, missy; but I'll never hate you. I can't see how anybody could hate somebody whom is so beautiful, so hardworking, so strong and yet compassionate. I take back everything bad I've ever said about you. I was wrong. I--"_

_"I don't know, quite frankly. I just don't know what to say... except..."_

To the contrary--the words were there. His mouth was still agape and all of it's features were locked and loaded, ready to speak them at will.

But he couldn't speak them. He _couldn't_. If he did, his ego--

Mr. Herriman's mind plunged into a fit of fierce denial, trying to suppress all the snakes of guilt, the wrinkles of remorse--but as much as he wanted otherwise, the fact of the matter prevailed. Those two words loomed internally overhead like giant twin saucers, consuming him in their proverbial shadow.

"MY ego."

He sighed. It was useless. His so-called mighty stature was wounded greatly as it was. If anything, he was only being even _more_ of an arrogant jackass by holding back. He...

Suddenly, a solitary line of wetness streamed gently through the strands of his good eye. Fresh, pure... and sad.

The latter of these three harked back a beat too late, as the index of his left paw instinctively reached to wipe away the wetness. Because instead of yanking them back out as intended, the other fingers landed on his face as well to cover the open eye; and then felt his right paw covering the bandaged eye.

He was crying.

The imaginary friend did not know for how long he did such, nor did he really care. The intense sensation that blistered across the covered area of his wounded eye was a meaningless numb compared to the emotional pain in which his splintered soul currently writhe.

And right now, there could be no more denying.

"Frances," Herriman choked with a sob. "I'M SORRY!"

In reality, the words didn't come anywhere near close to scraping past the entrance door; but it was different from the hare's perspective. At last, his many years of hubris crumpled down like giant structures, mighty-looking but rotting on the inside. At last, he realized that those words had come too late now. At last, he was revealed for just how pathetic and insipid he really was.

At last, he was coming undone.

After what seemed like an excruciating(Though at this point, somewhat expected) eternity, Mr. Herriman felt a human hand land on the cusp of his shoulder. Through embarassed instinct, he slapped his paws back down and cocked his head right behind. "Martha...?"

But Martha Foster was not there.

Instead, realizing as he returned his attention to the bed, it was the hand of Frances Foster. She had finally woken up.

She flashed a kind but somewhat triumphant smile. "Sowwy's not good enough, Bugs."

- - -

**A/N - I'm just going to say something that will disappoint some of you: although it is multi-chapter, it will not be very long, and it will NOT delve too deeply into Frankie's past(Or my view of it anyway). In fact, this is meant to be more of a short companion piece than a full-fledged story, since I felt like keeping the original one from Goo's perspective.**

**Again, I'm certain this will be finished a lot faster than AMoU will be. And of course, things are going to get very interesting from next chapter onwards...**


	3. a note from the author

**Voxxyn here... and chances are you won't like this announcement.**

**This story is being put on hold, at least for the time being. This is due to the quite unholy tag-team of writer's block and general creative exhaustion. It is NOT being canceled; though when it returns, it will be re-imagined in SOME way--say, take place some months after the events in A Moment of Understanding, and will be mostly introspective and quiet.**

**So why did I start a companion story without warning, and then halt it just as quickly? I'll just admit it: I got cocky, and I apologize.**

**I was 100 certain that this would be merely a short companion piece to my AMoU opus... which is ironic because AMoU was originally intended to be nothing more than a quickie one-shot, born out of my sudden obsession with _Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends_(I only began watching the show a few months before AMoU was written) and my anger at how Frankie was treated in the Goofball episode. It just happened that it grew into a full-blown story, and I decided to roll with it, as I had very ambitious fanfiction projects long before I even learnt about the existence of this weird little cartoon which would contain my biggest crush on any fictional character since a certain Nintendo bounty huntress.**

**The same happened with Precious. It started small, but grew to the point that had I continued, I'd have no choice but to make it a full-blown story as well. The problem, of course, is that it's a SECOND story, with the FIRST one not even finished at the time it debuted. And as much as I love _Foster_'s and admire McCracken and co. for making perhaps the best children's cartoon today, after spending most of my writing time on AMoU over the last few months, I've become burnt-out on this universe.**

**In short, it's MY fault for allowing a story that shouldn't have been published, at least not until I actually completed it as the short companion piece I intended it to be. This is not an untimely end for it. It will return... not any time soon, but the time will come. In the meantime, I apologize.**

**Dude13: I don't blame you if you're upset by this news. If it helps, my upcoming epilogue for AMoU will feature closure on the Frankie/Herriman/Mme. Foster relationship(As well as some actual Frankie/Goo sister-to-sister interaction ;).**

**See you later!**


End file.
